


Prima Donnas Of The Gutter

by fritz_winky



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Men in female clothing, Shameless Aramis, Uncomfortable D'Artagnan, Vague attempts at historical accuracy, future Athos/d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2303318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritz_winky/pseuds/fritz_winky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The security of the French monarchy hangs in a delicate balance.  Desperate for any means to rescue it, Athos comes up with one of their worst ideas to date.</p><p>Written for the BBC Musketeers Kink Meme: <i>How about the long used trope of the Musketeers needing to get information for a special mission that calls for two of them to dress as women, no angst, no gender issues. Of course D'Artagnan and Aramis end up in the dresses.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been Athos’ idea. Porthos had agreed to it with full sincerity, and, once Treville himself had deemed it their best chance, D’Artagnan found that he had to put very slim hopes in Aramis to keep it from happening. He crossed his fingers that Aramis, who was known for his open-mindedness, held on to some sense of _something_ from his days of almost joining the clergy. All hopes came crashing down when Aramis’s only and biggest qualm was the fact that he’d have to shave.

Of course, Aramis knew exactly why he’d been picked for this particular job. D’Artagnan, reluctantly, knew as well; he was still new, which gave the others plenty of leeway when it came to ordering him around, and also the youngest which meant less shaving . His slight figure leant itself to the decision, too, as with Aramis. Athos could no doubt achieve a similar look, but the thought of him acting demure made Porthos guffaw and Aramis snort. Porthos, of course, was as attractive as men could come, though they all knew that his broad shoulders would not look so striking when draped in a lady’s gown. So it had to be Aramis, who, D’Artagnan secretly thought, would probably look very handsome dressed to the nines under all that scruff. Not to mention that Aramis knew full well how ladies of a certain quality were meant to act, and D’Artagnan had heard many stories of Aramis and his undercover work over the years.

Understanding alone was not enough to stop Aramis from being as dramatic as possible. They all knew he was taking advantage of the situation, being difficult solely for the purpose of being difficult. While D’Artagnan just shut up and took the minimal shaving with a grain of salt, Aramis fussed. Aramis was impossibly attached to his facial hair. He took care to set it with wax each night, a fact which he’d kept well hidden until one day Porthos brought it up (which had, in turn, spurned on an argument that ended with Porthos quite literally hauling Aramis off). 

Eventually, it was Porthos who’d had enough of the whining first. Together, his three friends admitted that there were fewer sighs more terrifying than the sight of Porthos advancing with a straight razor in his hand, and Aramis had promptly shut up after that. That had, almost alarmingly, been the hardest part of the whole ordeal. It was a fact that D’Artagnan was very, _very_ , aware of, so he tried not to think about it. 

Item number two on the agenda was attire. As always, Constance seemed to become involved in their schemes, though it was a legitimate partnership this time. They’d come to the conclusion that a proper seamstress was needed (still morning the loss of his moustache, Aramis had put up no argument); Constance seemed all too delighted at the prospect to say no. In her mind, Aramis and D’Artagnan had collectively done her head in so many times that this was without a doubt the most magnificent form of revenge she could muster.

While saving the country, of course.

Since new dresses were expensive, not to mention took several days to make, she had managed to dig up some things she’d been absently working on in her free time. Combined with some decommissioned gowns that her husband had tossed aside, Constance had cobbled together a rather pretty pair of outfits for the two ladies-to-be. She pulled them out of a trunk with a great flourish, handing Aramis one in green and pale golden accents, and D’Artagnan received a fair pink number. She insisted, of course, that the hue would look much more attractive on his skin, though D’Artagnan knew better. He saw the glint in her eye when she pulled out matching corsets and ushered him into the next room to try it on.

Constance had apparently thought beyond the dresses, too. With a considerable amount of imagination, she cobbled together a set of breasts for both D’Artagnan and Aramis. That is to say, breast-shaped cushions sewn into a belt that would strap around their chests, under the corsets. She was clearly pleased with them. She was even more pleased when Aramis had given both pairs a good squeeze to ensure their realism. 

Wigs, shoes, and stockings were subsidized by Treville. None of his musketeers had the money to front for such things, especially when Aramis insisted on well-made ones. The money would be cut from their pay in increments to pay back over time, of course, but with the security of France on the line it seemed a small price to pay. At least to Treville. Aramis and Porthos had bemoaned their loss before it had even started. Accessories had come easier. Aramis had proudly brought in a small ebony box, which he unlocked with a key that hung around his neck. Inside was a veritable treasure hoard of fans, combs, broaches and pearls. Tokens, he’d explained, from his lady loves. Aramis had spent a lot of time picking and choosing which items he’d let D’Artagnan choose from (he claimed sentimental value to mask the fact that he wanted to keep the good pieces for himself).

Getting dressed was an ordeal for everyone involved. Athos had sat himself in the corner, nursing a bottle of wine as he wondered, exactly, how this was going to play out. The idea was perfect. He had to believe that, because it was their best chance, but he couldn’t be certain that D’Artagnan and Aramis would be very convincing women. The mannerisms could be adopted, certainly, but it wasn’t as if looks could be faked. He might have just purchased stockings for the ugliest women in France. Porthos didn’t seem to agree. He paced back and forth, waiting for the big reveal. To say he was excited at the thought of Aramis in stockings and a corset was a large understatement. He’d made that point vocal from the start, tugging Aramis close the moment he’d finished shaving his face and whispering something lewd in his hair. Athos knew it had been particularly colourful, because Aramis had blushed. He had to take another drink to stop thinking about it.

Inside the bedroom, Aramis and D’Artagnan strapped on their chests. Knowing that Aramis would be less of a disaster when it came to clothes, Constance had agreed to help him into his corset first. D’Artagnan watched with growing apprehension as Constance tugged the strings. It looked horrible, leading the young man to wonder how women even bothered. The fear grew as they had to try several times to get the corset to sit just right to achieve a maximum feminine figure, with the round cushions pushing up over the top frill. Immediately Aramis went to the mirror, smoothing his hands along his waist. He was very concerned at all times about his figure, pleased, more than anything, about the trimness of his waist. He went to great lengths to show it off when he could, from the cut of his breeches to wearing that blue sash tied over his coat. D’Artagnan had to admit, for a fleeting moment before he felt blood rushing to his cheeks and further south, that Aramis looked obscenely nice in the contraption. 

Suddenly Constance was bearing down on him, hauling him up and manhandling him into the corset. Somewhere in the background, D’Artagnan could hear the slide of stockings and the rustling of the dress as Aramis made quick work of it all. He tried to twist to see what it looks like, but Constance pulled him back sharply, and D’Artagnan was left to do nothing more than listen to the loud whistle that no doubt came from Porthos. It was followed by a demure laugh, a loud laugh, the snap of a fan hitting a hand, a chair squeaking as Aramis yelped, and Athos telling them to behave before Aramis ripped his skirts.

This, D’Artagnan thought, wheezing at another pull of the strings on his corset, was going to be a trying experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things to get out of the way, so you can continue on as it pleases you.
> 
> 1) I have made a few (albeit) lazy attempts to remain somewhat historically accurate when it comes to clothing/make-up/etc. That being said, this is meant to be an overall lighthearted piece about a well-used trope, so I'm not placing too much seriousness on this matter.
> 
> 2) What I am placing seriousness on is this: I have decided not to refer to this as cross-dressing. This really comes down to one thing, and that is that I feel cross-dressing is a lifestyle. It involves a lot of work, time, and effort, and to a lot of people it's a serious and important part of their lives. I would hate if I at all in some way trivialized that. That being said, there will be moments in this story where men in female clothing is sexually played up. I hope that I by no ones offend anyone.
> 
> Phew. I think that's it. Now that we have the heavy-handed part out of the way, please enjoy. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos is handsy, Athos is kind enough to explain the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta, and I tend to write late at night, so my apologies for any mistakes (which will be fixed promptly).

In the room on the other side of the door, Athos was wondering what the hell had gotten into his head. It was, to put it nicely, the worst idea any of them had ever had. And collectively they’d had some _bad_ ideas. Desperation, Athos thought. That was where he was placing the blame. With the security of France already hanging in a constant balance, the knowledge that someone had the means to tip the scales toward disaster had made Athos jump to lengthy measures. He had been certain Treville would laugh him out of the garrison; it was clear, though, by the tired look in the captain’s eyes, that he was just as desperate.

The small consolation that Athos could cling to was that Aramis would do better than expected. He had wits enough to be engaging, an inviting warmth about him that demanded trust, and endless reserves of charm. They would need the charm, because there was no way anyone would come out of this looking like a beautiful Parisian damsel. God help them all.

He uncorked his second bottle of wine and put the neck to his lips. To the side, Porthos paced. Athos was certain Porthos’s thoughts ran a similar path. He had to close his eyes.

“You’ll make me dizzy. Sit down, would you?”

“The wine’s what’s going to make you dizzy,” Porthos shot back. He huffed out a tense breath. No sooner had he sat down than the door opened, and Aramis swanned out with a delicate fan across his face.

For a brief moment, time froze in the small room. Athos stared. Porthos took in everything about the sight in front of him, from shoes to skirts to _breasts_ to Aramis’s dark eyes staring him down from the edges of the ruffled lace. Porthos’s whistle broke the silence, spurred time back into motion.

“Fuck.” Porthos grinned like a wolf, leaning back in his chair as he watched Aramis preen. “Come let’s get a better look, yeah?”

Aramis laughed, a sound pitched higher than his usual octave. It was every bit coy and lady-like as one would expect. Aramis, of course, had been on the receiving end of such a laugh so many times that it was little wonder he could throw his voice to mimic it. He swept closer to Porthos without losing any of his grace. His hips swayed a certain was as he walked, causing the skirts to shift around him. Porthos’ laugh was nothing short of very pleased as he reached out to touch.

“Monsieur!” Aramis gasped, sounding scandalized in his pretty voice. His fan snapped shut with a practiced ease before being smacked gently against Porthos’s hand. In a flash, a strong arm wove around his waist and he gave a startled cry, tumbling into Porthos’ lap. The chair pushed back from the force of it.

“Would you two behave?” came a lazy quip from Athos. The wine was starting to kick in, he could feel it. “We don’t need Aramis ripping his skirts.”

“Mm, wouldn’t mind ripping up his skirts.” Porthos voice rumbled from where his mouth was pressed to Aramis’ neck. With one arm holding him close, his other hand was free to roam, pushing up under the aforementioned skirts. Aramis gave a soft sigh. He squirmed at the feeling of familiar fingers through the silk of his stockings. The sigh gave way to the slightest of whimpers when Porthos’ fingers at last found the bare skin of his thighs.

“Wonder what you’ve got under there,” Porthos said. Aramis could feel the man’s smirk against his throat when his question was answered. “You little harlot, you. Practically just asking for it. Love it when you get shameless.”

“If you could make an attempt at some decency, it would be thoroughly appreciated.” Athos raised his eyebrows. He stood up from his chair, ignoring the ever so slight sway he felt at the movement, to begin his own pacing. “Let’s not make this more obscene than it needs to be.”

“I could sit in your lap next, Athos, if that would appease you.” Aramis smiled. It was too wide and too wicked, and much more obvious than it had been before now that it wasn’t surrounded by a beard. 

Athos was spared the task of responding. Constance emerged from the bedroom. D’Artagnan followed. He was less showy than Aramis had been, seeming to retreat into the piles of pink that overtook him. There was an obvious lack of poise, too, as he tripped over himself.

“Damn these shoes,” he muttered, petulantly like a child. Damn the whole thing, he wanted to say. The shoes would have to take the brunt of his anger for now. 

“Oh, come on, now, straighten up.” Constance put her hands on his shoulders to lift him. “You look lovely,” she said, and, in her own unique way, that seemed to help. Constance’s voice was the reassurance d’Artagnan needed to glance up at his friends.

Aramis was giving him a bright smile from his seat in Porthos’ lap. Porthos nodded his approval, even giving a slight clap now that his hand wasn’t lost up Aramis’ dress. Athos seemed unreadable. Athos was always unreadable. D’Artagnan thought there was a colour to his cheeks, though, and his mouth seemed to hang open. Probably too much wine.

“Well?” Constance glanced around at the lot of them. Her eyebrows had raised and her hands sat on her hips. “Here I’ve done all this work, and not even a word on how it’s turned out?”

“Apologies.” Athos seemed to have found himself. “It is remarkable, Constance, truly. Your help will not go unappreciated in this endeavor.”

“Yeah, nice touch on this bit, too,” Porthos offered. He had his hand now on Aramis’ chest, squeezing the fake breasts that rested beneath the top. “They feel about right. Should be bigger though, I think.”

“Porthos, stop touching Aramis’ breasts,” came Athos’ weary sigh. Luckily no one mentioned that it was a strange sentence to say. “What more is to be done?”

Constance let out a thoughtful hum. She regarded the two men in dresses with a serious air that made the entire situation more comedic to d’Artagnan. “They ought to be done and ready with their clothing. Tomorrow I’ll show them to paint their faces up.”

“They’ll need it.” Athos ignored the offended look he got from Aramis. Constance pressed on.

“It’s fashionable to be pale. We’ll make due with what we can. Lucky you both have soft faces, that ought to make it easier.”

“So tomorrow they put on make up, then what?” Porthos frowned around the room. “We throw them to the wolves?”

Athos nodded.

“More or less.” He’d taken up leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed across his chest, and his face had taken on a solemn look. “The man we seek is Edmond de Villeforte. He is a Frenchman by birth, though he will claim to be Spaniard or Italian by heart depending on his company. He is in the trade of selling secrets to the highest bidder, uses his good standing in international courts to continue his business. We have received almost certain proof that he is in the possession of papers that could topple the French monarchy.”

“That’s all well and good,” Aramis remarked, “but where does all this begin to fit in? I’m as keen as the next to save king and country, but this seems excessive if we’ve merely got to find the man.”

“We know where the man is. He has recently arrived in Paris, no doubt to retrieve his goods, and he plans to stay some weeks. Likely this is to keep up appearances. He dabbles in the court life, but his true passion seems to be his private parties, to which he graciously only ever extends invitations to ladies.” At this, Athos gave Aramis and d’Artagnan pointed looks. “Men attend as chaperones for the women, though it is obvious de Villeforte would rather surround himself by skirts and fans. Somehow, God willing, you two will manage to charm your way into those invitations.”

“Wait a moment. I’ll need to make them party dresses as well, now?” 

“I hadn’t meant to spring it upon you so suddenly, but, yes.”

“That could take weeks!” Constance looked equal parts outraged and put out. “Even if I manage to find two abandoned commissions, adding the extra trimmings alone will be hours.”

“I’ll help.” Aramis’ offer was earnest. It calmed Constance a little.

“Getting back to the plan,” Athos interrupted. He hated being interrupted himself. “If by divine intervention you receive invitations –“

“Do you think that we’re not fit enough to achieve that on our own?”

“If you’d let me finish, Aramis –“

“I only mean to say that it sounds rather like you’re suggesting we’re not particularly pleasing to look at.”

“I think you’re plenty pleasing.”

“Porthos – What have I told you about your hands?” Athos covered his face with his palms. He took a deep breath. “ _If_ you two are invited, I will go as d’Artagnan’s chaperone. Together we can keep watch, for I’m afraid Aramis will need to do most of the work. You speak all the languages of his chosen allies, you know the workings of courtier life, and I would like to believe that, for once, we can put your coquettishness to use.”

Aramis pressed a hand to his heart, looking positively flattered. It was as much of a compliment as Athos ever gave.

“Are we all agreed then?”

The room echoed with a chorus of agreements, then Constance let out another annoyed sigh.

“I ought to go, then, get a start on these bloody party dresses.” She paused momentarily on her way out to give kisses to the cheeks of Aramis and d’Artagnan, and squeezed Aramis’ hand in advanced thanks for his aid. D’Artagnan looked lost.

“Who’s going to help me out of this thing?” 

“Oh, here, let me.”

Aramis had begun to stand, but Porthos tugged him back to his lap. “Don’t even think about it,” he growled, latching back on to Aramis’ neck. “You’re staying right here with me.”

“I’ll do it.” Athos ushered d’Artagnan back into the bedroom. “Anything to not have to watch them do this again.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little downtime before getting to work, where Aramis explains make-up in the 17th century and Athos and d'Artagnan continue to bond.
> 
> As always, apologies for any spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. I try to catch them all before posting, but, alas.

The sun was beginning to set over the city as Aramis and Constance tucked away their projects. While her husband had not enjoyed the thought that she’d be out of the house for such a long time, he’d shut up well enough when an armed troop of musketeers – who were _not_ the usual ones – had shown up at his door. When your wife was summoned specifically to save the monarchy, you had very little to stand on against it. Still, Constance had decided to spare him too much agony by not brining her work home with her, but with Aramis helping it was speeding along. She’d had no idea he was so good with a needle and thread. She’d even offered him a job.

But this had all happened after the make-up lesson, which had been a lesson in extreme patience for all involved. Even now as Aramis walked out into the darkening streets, he rubbed at his cheeks, feeling a tightness in his skin from where he’d scrubbed clean. His fingers caught on the shadow of his stubble that was growing back in.

“What have I told you about sneaking up on me?”

Porthos gave a grumble, then an amused snort as he fell into step with Aramis. “That I’m right shit at it, that’s what. Doesn’t mean I’m planning on stopping.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” Aramis glanced to the side, giving Porthos a smile that was nothing short of fond. He’d hate for Porthos to ever stop playing their little games. “How are things at the garrison?”

“Eh.” Porthos shrugged. “Word’s spread what we’re all up to. They’ll take it out of you next time you’re around, but I think I managed to get the message across not to mess about.” His lips quirked up in a smirk. “Treville’s got you and d’Artagnan those invitations to the garden party where you’ll meet our guy. Guess that’s it, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.” Aramis let his face fall into something unreadable for a moment. It was a habit of his, whenever he lost himself in his thoughts.

Porthos noticed. Of course he noticed, he barely had to look at Aramis to know he was making that face. He said nothing more about it until he followed Aramis inside his modest apartment and the door was closed behind them. “Aramis –“

“It’s just a lot, don’t you think?” Aramis dug out some bread and cheese he had stored away, a meager excuse for a proper meal but one they were used to. “If we can’t do this, we don’t have any back up plans, do we? I can’t be the musketeer responsible for the ruin of France.” He frowned. 

At heart, Aramis had always felt more Spanish than French. Born near the border, a Frenchman by birth right, his mother had come from Spain and Aramis had inherited so much more from her than his father. His friends knew this, but knew, too, that he didn’t take vows lightly. He’d vowed himself to protect the king of France, and so he would. It was one of the many qualities Aramis possessed that made Porthos swell with pride. 

“Rubbish,” Porthos snorted. “If anyone’s got this in hand, it’s you. You could play even me for a lark, if you wanted.”

“You’re terribly easy to play.” Even so, that little bit of faith made Aramis smile more easily. He poured out some wine for Porthos then rummaged through his satchel, pulling out a pot. When he opened it, the room filled with a pungently floral scent. 

Porthos wrinkled his nose.

“What’s that, then?”

“Pomatum.” It was hard to decipher if Aramis was weary at the thought or pleased at having to explain it. “It will, according to Constance, keep my skin soft and bright.” He dipped his fingers into the waxy substance and wiggled them at Porthos before smearing it around his own face.

Porthos, for his part, watched merely in strange fascination. For some reason, he hadn’t stopped to realize how much work was going into this. “I like your skin,” he said. It sounded a bit stupid to his ears.

“As do I, really, so I will continue to use it. All those powders and rouges are murder, I think. The options seem endless. D’Artagnan thought of going for the cheaper options but I’ve seen the aftermath of ladies using some of those recipes.” Aramis paused to shudder. “I’ll happily sell a few things to ensure I keep my complexion.”

“Such a vain thing, you are.” Porthos rolled his eyes. He waited for Aramis to finish administering the pomade to his face, then tugged the man into his lap. “Go on, then, tell me all about the things you learned to make yourself look a proper lady.”

Aramis wrapped his arms around Porthos’ neck, delighted, as always, to be settled in his lap. “First we tried painting our faces. A pale complexion is desired in the court, you know, but we looked ghastly with white faces against the rest of our skin. Then Constance brought us a powder made of bone,” he paused so he could properly see Porthos’ grimace, “and pearl powder. We rub our faces down with oil and puff the powder around. It has a much more desirable outcome.” 

“I see.” Porthos was clearly trying to envision what Aramis must have looked like. “Was that it, then? Can’t imagine you resisting the urge of a bit of rouge.”

“Of course I couldn’t.” Aramis nudged their noses together. “Spanish paper, dyed red, rubbed on the cheeks. It’s mad what these ladies go through. I should think I appreciate them a bit more suddenly.” 

“Because you’ve always needed help to appreciate ladies.” His arms tightened around Aramis’ waist, almost possessively, and he ducked in for a kiss. “Before you put all this away, I’m planning on getting my fill in.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Now let’s eat, I’m positively famished.”

\---

D’Artagnan trudged his way across the garrison. He’d been back for most of the day, but he’d been getting hassled for hours. Now he knew why the others didn’t readily share the details of their mission. It wasn’t a show of staying private but rather a move of self-preservation. D’Artagnan was going to have to learn how to keep things to himself.

After finishing up with supper – which he’d purposely gone to late, to avoid more jesting – he was feeling tired, overwhelmed, and irritated. He saw no one else stepping up the way he and Aramis were. What gave them the right to mock? His stormy mood was evidently a beacon to his friends, because before long Athos crossed his path on his own way out.

“You mustn’t let them get to you,” Athos said. He, too, sounded exasperated. It was his default state-of-being since all this began. “They’ll commend you for it soon enough.”

“How do you do that?” D’Artagnan frowned, tilting his head to the side. “How do you know what we’re all thinking before we have a chance to say as much?”

Athos gave a slight shrug of his shoulder. It was a dismissive action, but the curl of his smile was just seen in the fading light. “Years of practice, I assure you. And I suppose it helps that you’re rather expressive. If you feel you can’t face your other newest recruits just yet, I’ve got wine in my rooms. We could likely both use a drink.”

“That is an offer I will gladly take,” d’Artagnan agreed. His voice was flooded with relief. As they walked, he brought his hand up to his face to itch at it. 

“Is everything all right? You’ve been scratching at your skin all afternoon.”

D’Artagnan gave a grumpy huff. “It’s all that damned make-up.” He couldn’t help the petulant sulk that happened (which Athos suddenly found alarmingly endearing). “Oils and powders and papers and dyes and pastes. I’ve slathered myself in this pomatum that Constance gave me but I can’t get rid of the damn itch.”

“Ah. That’s what that smell is.” Athos, it seemed, was in a good humour. Of course he knew the smell. It brought back blurred memories of his own life as a courtier, a thing that would have, any other time, made him more reclusive than usual. The affect seemed lost this time around. The heavy involvement of his friends made it easy, and d’Artagnan’s impossible honesty made it seem funny. 

The younger musketeer flashed Athos an unimpressed look . “I don’t know how they do it. Even Aramis. Of course he took to it, of course he did.” D’Artagnan was admittedly envious of Aramis in most facets of life. Aramis, it seemed, was a wealth of skills and talents that he kept perfectly hidden until the exact moment it was needed. Aramis could learn something new at the drop of a hat. It wasn’t very fair to the Gascon. “I’ll be glad when it’s all done, that much is certain.”

“I’ve a feeling we all will.” Athos paused as he opened his door. “Apart from Porthos, perhaps. He seems to be enjoying it well enough for all of us.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but laugh. It was true. “He doesn’t really have to do much of anything, though, does he? Just stand there until we need him.”

“If only we could be so lucky. Please, make yourself at home. I do apologize for the mess.” Athos frowned for a moment as he glanced around. It was not necessarily a mess, just a bit cluttered. Unused. Athos never found much use for his rooms apart from sleeping. His free time was spent always at the garrison. 

“It’s fine.” D’Artagnan’s attention was not on the scattering of bottles or papers or whatever else Athos considered to be a mess. He was struck by the fact that this was the first time he’d been in Athos’ personal rooms. Or any of their personal rooms, really, but he’d always expected to see the others’ first. He hoped to pick up some more of who Athos was under the fleur-de-lis by examining the old equipments. “Why do you three not stay in the rooms at the garrison?”

“We all like our own space.” It was why Athos had wanted his, anyway. He had never been very personable. “Aramis, no doubt, appreciates the discretion it comes with. Porthos had never had his own rooms before. We helped him pick an apartment and comb the markets for things to fill it with.”

“Yeah?” It made d’Artagnan smile a bit. He tried hard to imagine that the three must have been like all those years ago. There were probably so many stories that he’d never hear. “You’ll have to tell me about it properly.”

“Porthos would tell it better.” Athos passed over a glass of wine. 

“And if I want to hear it from you?”

Athos paused for a moment. He swallowed down whatever breath got caught in his throat and in the next moment regained his previous composure.

“As long as you understand that I’m not very good at telling stories.”

“I’m all ears.”

With the wine, the company, and the moon beginning to shine through the window, Athos found that he wasn’t so bad at telling stories after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm being a bit liberal with the beauty aspects of the period, in which I'm mixing beauty trends from the early part of the century with the later half. A lot of early period make up was made with lead or mercury, which can have very negative effects on the skin. I made the assumption that with Aramis' mistresses being affluent, he's no doubt seen what these products can do to a person under the make-up and would choose to steer clear of them. My ideas of make-up are cobbled together from various resources, don't hold it against me.
> 
> Also, I'll be continuing to build up Athos/D'Artagnan. Aramis is the easiest of all for me to write so this will be heavily Aramis/Porthos but I promise the other two will get their moment. :)


End file.
